


My Idea Of Fun

by nadinehurley



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, F/M, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rule 63 Claquesous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadinehurley/pseuds/nadinehurley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prouvaire doesn't fuck and Claquesous does and Montparnasse is in the middle of them. Brujon and Babet pick a lot of fights. Eponine is a mother whether she wants to be or not.</p><p>(Patron-Minette drabbles with some Montprouvaire for good measure.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Idea Of Fun

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, gosh, I don't even know what kind of content warning to put on this thing? Nothing graphic goes down because I'm a weenie, but we are dealing with Patron Minette here, so be warned that there are slurs and misogyny and some allusions to blood and guts and pot smoking ahead.
> 
> Have fun. Be safe. Idk, y'all.

“You got a text from Prouvaire,” Claquesous says when Montparnasse climbs back into the front seat of her van. His phone is still on the seat where it fell out of his pocket when he ran into the convenience store to buy cigarettes, and he removes it from under his ass now with no poise whatsoever.

“Were you reading my texts?” he asks, almost defensive. She rolls her eyes and starts the van.

“That would be a _negative_. I’d rather not see what kind of weird shit you two sext about. Are you gay now or something?”

There’s silence as he taps out a response to whatever it is Jehan wants.

“I don’t think you can just magically become gay, Sous. It’s not contagious.”

Montparnasse rolls down the window and lights a cigarette. He makes a point to not offer one to Claquesous, then continues, “and we’re not fucking sexting. That’s tacky.”

“ _That’s tacky,_ ” she parrots. “I find that very hard to believe.”

He exhales smoke in her general direction. “Don’t be vulgar. We’re not even sleeping together.”

“ _Really._ ”

“Really. We don’t fuck. _He_ don’t fuck,” he tells her boldly.

She drums bony fingers on the steering wheel idly and there’s something that looks like dried blood caked in some of her cuticles.

“He _doesn’t_ fuck,” Claquesous corrects.

Her mouth twists into a grin that exposes her crooked teeth and chipped front tooth, and Montparnasse glares daggers at her because this is _really_ not the time to be correcting his grammar. Who does she think she is?

 

 

***

 

It’s summertime and sticky-hot outside but Eponine is on the front porch of her parents’ double-wide putting color on Montparnasse’s hair anyway. She has foregone gloves and her arms and hands are stained purple-black and this could be going smoothly right now but Montparnasse won’t stop _squirming_.

“Stop pulling my fucking hair!” he orders, and Eponine scoffs.

“How the hell else do you expect me to get the color in there, dumbass? This is high art. You oughta act more grateful.”

“I’m not at all grateful for your stupid, shitty _man-hands_ ,” Montparnasse asserts, defiant. Eponine yanks hard on the hair she’s got in her hands, then, and he yelps in pain. Azelma giggles from her perch on one of their mismatched deck chairs.

“That ain’t very nice, Parnasse,” she tells him, drawing scraped and dirty knees up to her chest.  

“Fuck off. Both of you,” he says, and scowls at Azelma for emphasis, but any menace the look might hold is lost because there is presently a towel decorated with dolphins wearing sunglasses wrapped around his shoulders and his hair is sticking up everywhere and he looks ridiculous. Azelma starts giggling again.

 

 

***

 

Claquesous sits on the couch in Montparnasse’s apartment and takes extra care to kick up her dirty boots on his new coffee table. Her phone rings, and it’s Babet, and if this isn’t a business call she’s going to kick his ass into next week.

“What do you want?” she answers, voice gravelly and biting. Babet lets out a short laugh on the other end of the line.

“You sound like hell, sweetheart,” he says, and she snarls, forgetting momentarily that he can’t actually see her right now.

“Don’t “sweetheart” me, you _fucking asshat_. What do you want?”

“I need a favor, Sous,” Babet tells her, and he’s talking so casually that this definitely isn’t about work. Claquesous could kill him. “Can you-”

“If you’re thinking about trying to pawn your fucking kid off on me tonight, think again. I have spent the entire day up to my elbows in bleach and shit and the last thing I want to deal with right now is your little menace.”

“Wait, “and shit” like “and stuff” or shit as in, like… shit?”

“I mean shit as in _literal feces_.”

“Damn, girl. That’s fucking brutal. At Mr. T’s? Or something else?”

“Don’t know, do you?”

Claquesous hangs up the phone. She’s the housekeeping at Mr. and Mrs. T’s motel sometimes, mostly to steal from their patrons, but for all it’s worth it is gross and hellish and today she is seething because of it. Babet’s girlfriend Genevieve can watch their little monster tonight; she’s the one that brought it into this filthy, awful world anyway and Claquesous resents that she is always the one to get saddled with babysitting duty when Eponine is busy.

Never mind that Babet is a sexist prick who dumps his kid on her largely because she’s the only other woman in their midst, why would anyone trust Claquesous with their offspring?

The door to Montparnasse’s apartment opens and there’s Montparnasse himself, shrieking unceremoniously when he sees Claquesous on his sofa.

“How the shit did you get in here?” he demands, trying to save face. Claquesous rolls her eyes.

“Did you really just ask me that?”

“Um, _yes_ , and I think it’s a valid question.”

“Magic fingers,” she says, smirking crookedly and beckoning him over with a scary, bandaged hand, “is how.”

 

 

***

 

“Do you ever fuck Claquesous?” Jehan asks Montparnasse one night, soft and casual like it’s no big thing. They’re in bed together and Montparnasse is tracing the bruises on Jehan’s freckly arms idly.

He stops abruptly.

“Do I _what_?”

“It’s okay if you do. I don’t mind. You just look at her funny, sometimes. They’re... very telling, your eyes are.”

Montparnasse grapples for the most eloquent word choice here, but they’re high and his head is hazy and speaking English can be really challenging sometimes.

“I… have done that, yes. We do. Fuck. We do fuck,” he decides, finally. The words feel strange and heavy and taste metallic in his mouth. Jehan simply hums quietly in response.

“Have you ever looked at her hands? I think she’s a witch,” he says cryptically. Insobriety aside, Jehan is a weird, enigmatic storybook creature that Montparnasse can never quite wrap his mind around (but to be honest, he’s kind of totally into it).

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you like fucking her?”

Montparnasse considers this.

“Can I get back to you on that?”

 

 

***

 

Babet and Brujon turn up at the Thenardiers’ at some ungodly hour of the morning. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. T is anywhere to be found, and Eponine answers the door in nothing but a threadbare Iron Maiden t-shirt. She looks ready to kill.

“Is your dad home, kiddo?” Brujon asks. His knuckles are bleeding kind of profusely, and Eponine has absolutely no desire to know why.

She tells him, “no,” and he grimaces.

“Do you know where he went?”

“No,” Eponine says again, rubbing her eyes. “It’s like four in the fucking morning; can y’all go bleed all over somebody else’s front porch?”

“ _Eponine,_ ” Babet says dangerously, but it doesn’t even phase her.

“ _Babet,_ ” she mimics boredly. “I don’t know where dad is, okay? You can come in and wait for him, if you want. It don’t matter to me. But I’m going back to bed.”

She doesn’t end up going back to bed. Instead, she puts on a pot of coffee and disinfects the wounds on Brujon’s hands.

 

 

***

 

Jehan is shuffling his tarot deck with shaky hands, but his brain is somewhere else entirely. His hand tremors make Montparnasse nervous. This guy never stops moving.

They're sitting in Jehan's living room and his bookish roommate is nowhere to be found, which is just as well. The roommate does not particularly care for Montparnasse, and Montparnasse doesn't like him much either.

He watches Jehan shuffle his cards with a focused intensity. "What's on your mind?"

"I saw someone hit a rabbit on my way home from work," Jehan says, deadpan.

"What?"

"I saw somebody run over a rabbit today. Can I read your cards?"

The door to the apartment opens, then, and it's the roommate who's standing there. He does not look especially pleased when his eyes fall on Montparnasse, sprawled like a cat on the living room floor, but he says nothing about it.

"Hi Combeferre," Jehan greets softly. He holds the tarot deck out to Montparnasse. "Draw five cards."

Combeferre is cordial in spite of his apparent distaste for the situation he has just walked into. He nods hello to them both, and steps around Montparnasse to get to his bedroom.

Montparnasse humors Jehan, and draws five cards. He doesn't believe in any of that bullshit, but his reading does not sound good.

 

 

***

 

"Hold still, you bastard!" Eponine barks, gripping Montparnasse's jaw roughly. They're in her filthy bathroom, and she’s doing his face because ‘ _you wear your crusty ass eyeliner like you’re fucking Billy Joe Armstrong and it makes you look trashy, like, what, is it 2006?_ ’

“You’re going to put my eye out!”

His left eye is twitching rapidly, as if for emphasis. Eponine screams frustratedly.

“Hell yeah, I am! On purpose!”

Azelma is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, observing this travesty. She bites her lip thoughtfully.

"You look real pretty, Parnasse. She's not gonna blind you, probably."

There is a sharp knock on the front door of the double-wide, and Eponine lets out another anguished scream. She does not have time for this right now. She's a woman on a mission. But she opens the door anyway, and asks, "can I help you?"

There’s a man she’s never seen before standing on the front porch.

"I'm lookin' for a Mr. Jondrette, little lady."

"I don't know anybody named Jondrette," she says coolly, running a hand through her long, tangly hair. The stranger in front of her looks perturbed, like that was the wrong answer, but she hasn’t been a Jondrette for six or seven months now and this guy probably shouldn't be here.

"This is supposed to be his address."

Eponine shakes her head. "No such person. Not here, anyway." She turns around and calls back into the house, "hey, baby, you don't know anybody named Jondrette, do you?"

Montparnasse, with his makeup half finished, appears behind her. He manages to look foreboding even in his current state..

"Jondrette? Nah, never heard of him."

 

 

***

 

“D’you hear that Sous left?” Gavroche asks Montparnasse. He’s sitting at their kitchen table smoking a cigarette. Azelma is at the sink behind them, washing the dishes.

“She does that,” Montparnasse reminds him.

“Well… yeah. But I heard Brujon say she’s gone for good this time.

“Don’t listen to Brujon. He’s an idiot.” Montparnasse heaves a great sigh and exhales smoke into the dingy kitchen. Azelma fake-coughs dramatically. “Where’s your sister?”

Gavroche shrugs. “Not here.”

“I bet she’s out huntin’ for Marius, that boy she likes,” Azelma suggests.

“That _flighty bitch_ told me to come meet her here. What the hell is she doing out looking for Marius?”

“I dunno. There’s no sense gettin’ your panties in a twist about it though; she’ll be back.” Azelma pulls the plug in the sink and wipes her hands off on her jeans. “You shouldn’t be actin’ hateful anyway. You like college boys too.”

She grins cheekily, revealing the gap between her front teeth, and Gavroche snickers behind his hand. Montparnasse turns around in his seat to swat at Azelma and grumbles, “shut the fuck up,” but naturally, she’s right.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'm going to do more of these at some point? This was a lot of fun and I kind of want to expand their universe further. Who knows. I've got half a million things I'm supposed to be writing right now. The struggle is so real.


End file.
